


Oversteeped

by WrithingBeneathYou



Category: Naruto
Genre: Coffee Shop, Dating AU, Fluff, M/M, Stranger in a Strange Land, Toblerone is revived and takes up residence in modern Konoha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: Senju Tobirama navigates the wonderful world of online datingand has no idea what to do with it.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara, background Hatake Kakashi/Maito Gai
Comments: 28
Kudos: 239
Collections: MadaTobi Gift Exchange 2020





	Oversteeped

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for the lovely Oscurolibelle on Tumblr, for their [MadaTobi Gift Exchange](https://madatobigiftexchange.tumblr.com/) request:  
> "I would be happy with literally anything. Fic or art. Maybe they get revived in Modern Konoha and end up texting from a dating app and they don't know who the other person is. (They're both really good at hiding who they are with their messages.) But they fall in love and it's stupid and hilarious and finally decide to meet and they're just kinda thrown?"
> 
> Enjoy!

Tobirama appraises himself in the mirror, studies the long line of his legs where the clothing of this time leaves little room to move, much less fight. A single kick with any force behind it would blow out the inseam as easily as breathing and he’s not sure how he feels about that.

It’s a comfort to know that the peace his brother fought so hard to instill has taken enough of a foothold that textiles aren’t based solely on practicality anymore. However, these trousers are bizarre. He bends over to touch his toes and take the full measure of just how limited he’s going to be today, which turns out to be _severely_. The waistband digs into his abdominals half way down, leaving his arms to hang listlessly.

Glaring at himself, he wonders if the black jeans were Obito’s idea of a joke, crass little Uchiha that he is. Izuna’s second coming, he thinks darkly. Perhaps he wasn’t the only remnant from the Edo Tensei that was inexplicably summoned back to this plane. After the past year spent housed under the retired Rokudaime’s roof and playacting as a distant Hatake relative, nothing would surprise him anymore.

“Nice ass,” a bored voice drawls from the open doorway.

Jarred out of his spiraling thoughts, Tobirama inhales as deeply as he can with denim shoved up into his diaphragm and glances up at Kakashi’s reflection. “Civilian clothing is atrocious,” he announces, standing tall and tucking the awkward blue button-up back into place. Every shift of his body rucks the shirt tails up under his vest and he’s never wanted access to his decimated chakra coils more in his life.

A single katon jutsu, that’s all he needs. Just one spark for these polymer-based fabrics to go up in _flame_.

Kakashi snorts, arms crossed over his unfairly practical shinobi blacks. “Well, that’s what you get for letting Obito take you shopping for your date,” he points out, lifting a single judgmental eyebrow.

“It was either him or Maito and I had no way of knowing if I could withstand the auditory assault without permanent hearing loss,” Tobirama snaps back primly, earning a bright bark of laughter.

“Maa, so rude!”

As much respect as he holds for the man, Maito Gai is the culmination of every defect in Hashirama’s genetic line—all of that vivacious eccentricity boiled down into a single verdant concentrate. Despite living in the same modestly-sized apartment, Tobirama has found that being around him for extended periods of time takes a toll. 

The brightness of that smile burns and on some mornings his chest aches with it.

He finds he misses his Anija dearly in those moments. 

Kakashi, having a sixth sense for maudlin thoughts, strolls over to his bed and collapses onto the neatly-made linens uninvited. He shoves and bullies the pillows into a pile against the headboard to make himself comfortable and crosses his feet at the ankle, not deigning to take off his sandals first. Within seconds, a copy of Icha Icha materializes in his hand.

“You should braid your hair or something,” he announces. “I know we’ve got the whole Hatake cover story going, but you don’t actually have to look like a Shi Tzu.” Lazily rolling his wrist, he somehow manages to materialize a steel comb out of thin air and jabs it in Tobirama’s direction. Brown strands stick up between the teeth, looking suspiciously like dog hair. 

“Excuse me?” Tobirama narrows his eyes in displeasure the same way he used to keep students and elders alike in line, to absolutely no effect. The threat fizzles out with the sound of another page turning.

“Trim your beard too. It’s getting scruffy.”

Clenching his jaw, Tobirama brusquely snatches the comb and returns to the floor-length mirror mounted on the wall to do exactly that. He wonders if Kakashi realizes how transparent he is with this obfuscated coddling, but doesn’t bother to point it out. There’s an unspoken agreement between them not to discuss feelings—one that he finds comforting in light of Maito’s tendency to over-indulge. They may be older than him in terms of accrued age, but these men are still children in his eyes. 

Though, watching himself preen like an Uchiha entering their first courtship doesn’t exactly reflect well in that regard. 

He sighs explosively and gets to work.

The utilitarian comb does the job quickly enough, however he refuses to expend any effort braiding his hair when he can simply wrap it up into a topknot like Touka used to do. It’s grown long over the past year and settled under the new weight. In an odd way, he can see something of his cousin in his face like this—the same cheekbones and heavy jaw, through his is covered by a close cropped beard to hide the tattoos. 

Again, the remembrance of a time long since passed unsettles him. Playacting normalcy like this is alien to him. He’s a ghost displaced in time and has no business here pretending to be something he’s not.

A date…what was he thinking?

“Why am I doing this?” he blurts out, dragging his hands down his face and exhaling sharply.

“Because you’re a product of war trapped in the body of a civilian and want to know what it’s like to feel human?” Kakashi volunteers from his half sprawl, teasing lilt turning it into a question. “That or boredom,” he interrupts before Tobirama can retort, eyes curved up in a smile.

With the warm light of the late-morning sun slitting in through the blinds, he looks particularly impish today.

“So, you never mentioned, where did you and this mystery lover meet?” he asks, mask crinkling further at the corners.

“Online.”

Kakashi chokes. “I’m sorry, what?”

Tobirama gestures vaguely towards the phone charging next to a driftwood lamp on the bedside table. It’s the most garish shade of green to ever assault human eyes and matches Maito’s training attire perfectly. “Your husband gifted me the device, his former student instructed me on how to access the information sources on it, and the odd man in the half-shirt downloaded social applications.”

“You’re meeting a guy from a dating app. A dating app Sai put on your phone…” Kakashi says slowly, enunciating each word with care.

“I am,” Tobirama replies, tossing the comb back like a kunai. Moving towards his closet in three long strides, he goes to squat down, but thinks better of it, instead toeing his shoes across the hardwood floor and sitting on the corner of the bed instead. It dips down under his weight, forcing Kakashi to brace a sandal on his hip and scoot back, eyes wider than Tobirama has ever seen them.

And yes, it’s admittedly uncharacteristic of him to speak with anyone outside of the small group of shinobi who know him as more than a simple Hatake civilian. But, the impersonal nature of communicating through text served him well enough to alleviate some of the loneliness. This stranger seemed interesting enough, if a little cantankerous. Respectful at least. Intelligent.

“He’s the only one who didn’t send me a picture of his penis,” he offers charitably.

For the first time in Tobirama’s remembrance, Kakashi closes his book and places it on his lap. He stares at the cover for a moment, at a loss, and blinks several times.

“The other men were offended by honest critique and blocked me,” Tobirama clarifies, scoffing at the way his benefactor’s ears are swiftly flushing red. “I bet they were,” Kakashi whines from behind his hand, shoulders trembling with repressed mirth. 

Tobirama’s not sure what he’s done to garner this bizarre reaction and finds he doesn’t particularly care. Instead, he glances at the clock and leans down to tie his shoes. 

He was punctual before clocks were ever invented, he doesn't intend for that to change now.

Fortunately, he manages to step over Kakashi’s legs and slip out onto the window ledge a second before Gai bursts into his room, two dozen roses and a heart-shaped box of chocolates in hand.

Though, fifteen minutes and a light jog later, he wonders if he shouldn’t have humored Maito at least long enough to ask for some advice in navigating the social pitfalls of cafés.

He shifts his weight, staring down at the bi-fold chalkboard responsible for announcing the daily specials. Each loop and swirl is specifically designed to make him uneasy. Arugula and pistachio pesto quiche. Cinnamon apple bostock. Crêpes stuffed with fromage blanc and topped with stewed blueberries. These aren’t even languages that existed in his era much less his clan, and Sage knows he’s already mocked often enough for what’s deemed to be an archaic accent. Ordering any of this aloud is going to be a disaster.

The line shifts and suddenly he’s through the doorway, immersed in the bustle of quiet conversation and an oddly acidic smell that isn’t altogether unpleasant. Fake plants dangle about the modestly sized room and bracket the windows in a panoply of plastic and dust.

Anija would be horrified to see his village reduced to this, immediately scraping together an ill-thought initiative to run about Konoha and make the walls sprout with bougainvillea and plum blossoms if he were still around. If he hadn’t gone where his brother couldn’t follow for a second time.

Strange how Tobirama’s was the only botched Edo Tensei release.

Stranger still to see a member of Akimichi Torifu’s bloodline employed as a servitor.

“Welcome to The Steeped Leaf, what can we brew fresh for you today?”

Blinking in slow motion, Tobirama returns his attention to the front desk where the young Akimichi stands smiling expectantly. Ah, it’s his turn. There’s another small black board next to the boy with a list of beverages written in neon chalk so blazing he can barely look at the thing without grimacing. 

Smoked Butterscotch Crème. Blonde roast coffee. Whatever happened to green tea?

“I’ll take a cup of water,” Tobirama decides, voice pitched low in frustration.

Without shifting expression, the Akimichi cocks his head to the side. “I’m sorry, was that a ‘water’, sir?”

And curse this modern age. Give him a battlefield to wade through with the weight of a katana in his hand. Let him flow through taijutsu as easily as the suiton he embodies, legs housed in pants that aren’t specifically designed to restrict his movement and cut off the blood flow from the knee down. Uchiha Izuna was right, peace is far more fraught with danger than their skirmishes ever were. At least then death was swift and final instead of a thousand cuts meant to whittle him down. 

Eye twitching, Tobirama focuses on motor planning a modern W and tries again. “Yes, _w-ater_ , please.”

“And what size would you like, sir? Do you prefer lemon in it?”

Why the ever-loving Sage would anyone put antiseptic in their drink? Perhaps the incidence of intestinal parasites in Konoha is so rampant they offer medicinal treatment at public venues. He itches to ask for confirmation, but the risk of further embarrassment stays his hand. If modern Konoha has taught him anything, it’s that he has a long way to go when it comes to social graces as it is. He should save that topic of conversation for his date.

“Sir?”

They stare at each other long enough for the child to grow discomfited.

“Okay. Um. Small, no lemon. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try one of our specials today?”

“No.”

Proffering a handful of ryo as is proper results in the young man waving him off and explaining that water is free. This is awkward for all parties involved. Tobirama has the sudden, overwhelming urge to leave.

Nostrils flared, he accepts the small plastic cup and turns to stalk away with what shreds of dignity remain. Now that a drink has been acquired, all that’s left is swallowing past the tightness in his throat and locating the man he’s been intermittently texting over the course of the past three weeks.

Uchiha Shima, a surprisingly intriguing man with a depth of character that had Tobirama tapping away at his phone despite the late hour on many occasions. Their conversations were occasionally amusing and often insightful. In the moment, he found himself eager to accept the invitation to meet when it came, but now he’s not so sure. 

Courting isn’t the battlefield he knows. No fear, no blood, no pain.

Without those things to ground him, this is going to be a vapid, shallow, and wholly unsatisfying experience, or at least that’s how he tries to temper the hope blooming fire-bright and blinding. He has no idea what to do with this building pressure in his chest—the anticipation and joy that comes with broaching the unknown and sampling the fruit of his brother’s peace for himself. For the first time in his too-long life, channeling the frenetic energy that has taken root frightens him more than crossing blades ever did.

A date. An interpersonal relationship not based in the mire of war or running a shinobi village.

He recalls Hashirama’s elation at first meeting his arranged wife and the many years they shared exchanging soft touches and secret smiles. Though he would never admit it aloud, he wants that—wants to know what it’s like to embrace the gentler aspects of being human. 

As broken as Kakashi is, even he’s discovered that same happiness in Gai, so perhaps Tobirama has a chance as well.

He scans the tables, searching for a shock of black hair and the red headphones he was instructed to look for—helpfully described by Yamato to be like a happuri that sits further back on the crown of the head with listening devices attached. And there, in the farthest corner of the shop at a table for two and with his back facing the door is Uchiha Shima. Broad shoulders and a thick build, hair cropped close to the nape of his neck and worn longer towards the front. It’s a style Tobirama has seen before and unintentionally makes him recall standing shoulder to hip with his father as Uchiha Tajima watched them both with eyes redder than his own.

It takes a moment to batter down the memory and regain his resolve. This isn’t the Warring States Era and no one is dying. Navigating a café shouldn’t be so difficult. His palms shouldn’t be perspiring like an unblooded genin. To that effect, taking a deep draught of water helps. Too, seeing that Shima sits with his back to the only entrance goes a long way in cutting through the wariness. Only a civilian would do something so unthinking.

Tobirama makes his way over, sweeping through the milling crowds until he rounds the table.

A civilian or a man so confident in his power that there’s no need for caution of any sort.

“Uchiha Madara,” Tobirama hisses, eyes wide and lips falling slack. His water cup creaks in his hand as he softens his knees reflexively.

Madara’s head snaps up from where he was playing some mindless game or another on his phone. It continues to chirp and chime in his hand as they locks gazes. For a long moment, Tobirama wonders if he’ll attack, but then the tension breaks and Madara chuckles, soft and bemused.

“Fire’s balls. Hatake Inshō, eh? Figures I wouldn’t be able to escape you in any life,” he says in a toned down version of the musical dialect that haunted Tobirama in a prior life, grinning all the while. His demeanor is nothing like the violent, puerile asshole that used to deafen the counsel room with his blustering. This Madara seems calm, content—settled in his own skin. Surely it’s a trap.

“What are you doing here, Uchiha?”

“Call me Shima,” Madara retorts, waving off the formality that became as good as a slur in their later years. “Same as you, I imagine. You don’t have chakra, right, or was I the only luckless bastard in that respect? Doesn’t matter. Even if you did, it probably wouldn’t look good for a shinobi to murder a civilian in broad daylight. Stop looming and sit down already.”

It’s a testament to the absurdity of the situation that Tobirama does precisely that. Flattening the line of buttons on his vest with one hand, he takes a seat, perched uncomfortably on the edge of the chair.

“I’m not a shinobi any longer,” he snaps, unintentionally feeding the statement with too much raw emotion for it to be anything other than the truth. Wincing, he wets his lips with the last dregs of water and crushes the plastic cup in his fist. “And I’m not here as an assassin.”

“No, you’re not, are you?” Madara hums thoughtfully.

Even without the sharingan, his eyes are every bit as sharp and intelligent as Tobirama remembers. He knows what’s coming—knows the grievous blow that’s about to land.

“You’re here for _our date_.”

Tobirama lets the cup fall to the tabletop with a light crinkling impact. Felled completely, he buries his face into his upturned palms and groans as if mortally wounded. His dramatics win a laugh, lighter and more carefree than Madara’s mirth has ever been. There’s no darkness to it, no acid-burn.

“It’s hard isn’t it, trying to consolidate this world with the past,” Madara acknowledges once he’s sobered enough to speak without snorting. “I get the impression I’ve been here longer than you, or at least long enough to keep assholes from picking out my clothes at this point. It was Obito, wasn’t it? The little pest used to try to vacuum seal me in that shit, too.” 

Choosing to ignore the jibe, Tobirama tries to convince himself what he feels is dread, not disappointment. It takes a Herculean effort to sit up without tipping the table over and storming all the way back to Kakashi’s apartment. “How long?” he asks instead.

“Five years,” Madara replies without hesitation. “You?”

“One.”

Madara hums thoughtfully, watching Tobirama over the rim of his coffee as he blows on the surface then takes a sip. “That explains it,” he agrees, shaking his bangs out of his face. “Can’t recall seeing someone look so uncomfortable in their own skin since…well, since I first got dragged here.”

As enlightening as the confession is, Tobirama finds that it spawns more questions than it answers. Apparently his burning need to obtain all of the puzzle pieces at once despite the obvious danger shows on his face. 

“It’s fine, ask whatever you want,” Madara invites, and Tobirama knows it for the dare it is.

Fine, he’ll play. He leans onto his elbows, launching an offensive and pushing forward into Madara’s space with only the table between them. This close he can see the laugh lines on a face that used to have none.

“How?” Simple, concise, and open ended enough to take the full measure of this strange new creature sitting before him.

Mirroring Tobirama, Madara sets his coffee aside and shifts his weight onto his elbows as well. Muscle bulges under his plain black shirt, body no less honed than when he was actively trying to kill Tobirama in the fourth shinobi war. “Had my ass beat by Maito Gai and got dragged back here for,” a huff, “actually, I have no idea why. Punishment? Redemption? Doesn’t matter. They sat on me for a couple of years until my chakra coils fizzled out and I realized that you and Hashirama may have been right in some ways. After that, I took up running a group home for war orphans—been keeping those brats in line for three years now—and when you accepted my invitation I decided I had enough love in me for one more go.” 

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. Seven kids between the ages of six and fifteen, five, no, four koi now, and a very well-fed cat. Package deal,” Madara says with a shrug, breaking the awkwardness and easing back into his chair. “Stop looking at me like I’ve grown another head. It’s easy to be a saint in paradise. I’m no paragon of virtue, but I’m doing my best to move on and make things right for at least a few of the people I’ve wronged. Obito, too, who you know. Orochimaru is another of Konoha’s pet projects, but you’d do best to stay away from him.”

Floored, Tobirama can only look on. It’s almost impossible to reconcile these two versions of Madara—the man whose love drove him to madness and this calm bastion of normalcy. There’s no less passion banked in his eyes, but that fiery Uchiha devotion has been harnessed and channeled into something arresting as opposed to monstrous. Sage, those children are likely ones his actions orphaned in the first place—a direct line of atonement.

He swallows heavily and changes topics.

“If you were collected in the aftermath of the war, then Edo Tensei was not involved and your anecdotes are useless to me.”

Madara snorts, kicking out to knock their shoes together softly. “Nice to see you’re still the same asshole,” he mutters, pitching his voice loud enough that Tobirama can’t miss it. “I take it your nightmare jutsu is how you ended up back here? You don’t have the eyes or the skin condition, though.”

That’s true. The outward hallmarks of the Edo Tensei are absent, but if not a resurrection jutsu, what is his purpose here? Unless the kami are playing shogi, he can’t quite figure out it out. Waking to darkness and the damp press of soil wasn’t as terrifying as it should have been, caressed and stroked to placation by the roots of a massive oak tree. There had been voices, fingertips dragging across his chest and legs, then blinding sunlight. A year later, he is no longer the secretly unearthed Nidaime. He’s simply Hatake Inshō, an intelligent, but rather unremarkable man.

Much like Uchiha Madara—now Uchiha Shima—himself, who Tobirama has built a budding connection with over the past three weeks. He can’t make sense of anything anymore.

“This is ridiculous. I should slit your throat and be done with it,” he concludes, apropos of nothing. As if he could. Even without chakra, Madara is not an opponent to take lightly.

Mirroring his thoughts, Madara laughs uproariously and runs his fingers back through his hair, making sure to display the definition of his arms and the flare of his lats. “Oh, rest assured, Senju, I can still take you out.”

“And how precisely do you plan on accomplishing that, Uchiha?” Tobirama snarls, adding teeth to Madara’s clan name.

“By picking you up at seven so we can interrogate each over dinner.”

Taken by surprise, Tobirama pushes back from the table and lets loose an incredulous bark of laughter. He stares in wonder at this oddity before him with his familiar face—so much more handsome with the addition of a regular sleeping schedule—and a teasing uptick to his smile.

For the first time since he was brought back wrong, something missing slots into place.

“I suppose you can.”

“This is,” Madara pauses, looking up at the ridiculous fake vines hovering over their table and the dusty, nearly see through bunches of grapes, “a strange world. It grows on you after a while, though. Even if it’s difficult to understand, it has more promise than our time. Children aren’t dying from soldiering, at least.” Stroking the rim of his coffee cup, Madara tilts his chin down as if to find something in his reflection, then glances at Tobirama from beneath long eye lashes. “Wouldn’t mind spending some time figuring out the confusing bits with you if you’d be willing.”

“Mada—”

“Shima,” Madara is quick to interject.

“Shima. Our continued presence is the most confusing aspect of this world.”

“Then I guess ‘us’ is a good place to start.”

Broaching the divide, Madara reaches over to take up Tobirama’s hand. His palm is smooth and completely devoid of the calluses that defined them as shinobi. No thick ridge where a gunbai handle sat like a natural extension of his arm. No dark rings on his fingers where kunai spun before being launched deep into Senju flesh. Only unblemished skin and what looks suspiciously like the remnants of tempera paint under his nails. 

“I’ve made many mistakes. I don’t deny that. But I’m a selfish man, Tobir—Inshō, and given this opportunity to live a life without pain is…” He trails off. “I don’t deserve forgiveness, so I won’t ask for it. But if you’re willing, I think it would be nice if we could start over.”

“You’re suggesting we ignore twenty five years of history. No resentments. No regrets,” Tobirama drawls, one brow raised incredulously.

“Yes.”

“You’re a fool to think I will ever truly forget,” Tobirama begins, holding up a hand to forestall Madara’s sputtering, “but I’m willing to try. If only to be close enough to protect these unfortunate children whom have fallen into your care.” And civilian or no, he will if the context calls for it. Being reborn has done little to curb his suspicious nature. Still, it’s also done little to curb his _curiosity_.

“If we end up that close, I don’t think I’d particularly mind dying a third time,” Madara shoots back. There’s a gentleness to the way he strokes Tobirama’s knuckles with his thumb. “So should I wait for tonight to start courting you, or would you like to come spend some time in the Uchiha district this afternoon? We have kimonos and proper tea if you need an incentive.”

As is the draw of warm, fragrant tea wasn’t enough, there’s also the promise of company that is familiar with the full measure of his character and finds him worth pursuing regardless. The thought of wearing a kimono—light, airy, and sweet against his over-sensitive skin—without looking even more out of place in this modern era is an admittedly good incentive as well.

Tobirama shifts in his seat and arches back to relieve the unfamiliar ache of a too-tight waistband, pulling his shirt taut across his chest. “Whatever it takes to divest myself of these pants,” he announces, finding himself eager to take a chance.

Madara chokes, spilling his coffee.


End file.
